Deadness slithers across our spirits.
We are zombies, paltry not grand
parents, sure we’ll never be great grand.
Daytime sleepwalkers, we are plagued,
bitten, beaten, itchy. We feel
our way, step by stumbling step, day
by disjointed day with fleeting views.

Fleeing wildfire smoke, daughter and grandsons
ride and wait and fly and wait and fly and
ride to grandma’s home. Can a one or six
year-old bond with grandparents in two weeks?
Will free range daughter revisit mother
church? Will her sons ever see grandma’s joy?

Divine Mediator, You understand
our common and uncommon frustrations.
Holy Parent, may we hear each other’s
heart songs: show us what drives us, what divides.
Wise Gentle Judge, pardon our rash actions;
end jargon-loaded argument cycles.

Dissolve family food fight follies. Grant us
a hearing, God. You see our true motives.